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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092823">vigil</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities'>LoversAntiquities</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ficlet, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 05, Sharing a Bed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:21:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092823</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After spending years on the road, either driving or hitchhiking from one motel to the next, Dean has learned to become a light sleeper.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>247</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>vigil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After spending years on the road, either driving or hitchhiking from one motel to the next, Dean has learned to become a light sleeper. At any moment, someone could break through the door, or bust open a window, and game over if he didn't wake up in time. Not that something like that has ever happened, but out of all the likely scenarios, his brain sticks on that one, on being murdered in his sleep before he can even defend himself.</p><p>Some nights, Dean wishes he could sleep without drowning himself in cheap beer or pills. Hours ago, he popped enough painkillers to knock out even the healthiest person, and still nothing. Still a persistent ache in his spine, still a headache throbbing behind his eyes, and the cut above his brow sluggishly bleeds into the towel propped under his head, showing no signs of stopping.</p><p>Blearily, Dean stares out of the slit in the motel window and wishes someone would hit him over the head with the phone, or the alarm clock, or even the television, if it meant getting some rest. In the other bed, Sam snores and rolls over, sheets rustling as he pulls them over his head. At least one of them can sleep. Sam always had a habit of passing out the minute his head hit the pillow—for Dean, it takes effort and determination, and all absence of pain.</p><p>They got the jump on him earlier—a rookie mistake, something his father beat into him at a young age: don’t turn his back, no matter what. And in a split second, the ghoul latched onto him and flung him through the crypt wall, only for him to land on top of some poor sap’s headstone. Somehow, he didn't break his spine or any other bones; tomorrow, his back will be every color of the rainbow, and he won’t be able to do a thing about it other than choke back the tears and move on.</p><p>The apocalypse takes priority—regular aches and pains mean nothing in the ‘grand scheme.’ <em>Bullshit</em>, Dean thinks, pinching his eyes shut. <em>It hurts</em>.</p><p>Sometime around two in the morning—or somewhere close, based on how across the street, the owner of the bar shutters the lights and leaves—a familiar flutter wafts into the room, disturbing the motel stationary. A pen falls off onto the carpet; Sam snuffles and doesn’t wake. Leaning up on an elbow, Dean winces and spots Castiel standing by the door, a stray beam of light hitting only half of his face. The good half, Dean suspects; Castiel walks with a limp to the foot of the bed, but his expression remains still, without a trace of agony.</p><p>“Can I stay here?” is all Castiel asks, quiet as the night, and Dean nods and pulls the covers aside.</p><p>Almost like a vigil, Dean watches Castiel undress, first kneeling to unlace his shoes, then to pull his socks off. Nimble, scraped fingers work to pull his belt from the loops, then undo his zipper. Somewhere in his mind, Dean knows he shouldn't watch. Shouldn't pay so much attention to Castiel pulling off his coat and jacket, but he does. It all feels methodical and foreign, and Dean marvels at every inch of skin exposed, what he initially thought to be unblemished now dyed purple and red. A litany of wounds mars Castiel’s chest and back, and even his thighs and forearms, like someone beat him half to death and left him to suffer. Probably more than one someone—and none of them were human, nor demon.</p><p>Dressed in nothing but his boxers, Castiel pads over and places both hands on the mattress before falling in. Springs creek, unnaturally loud in the quiet of the room; Sam, thankfully, continues to snore. Castiel keeps his back to Dean and curls into himself, body lit by the neon glow. Desperately, Dean watches to touch him, to feel the blood-warmed bruises lining his spine, knowing that they match his own. But Castiel doesn’t want him to, or so Dean suspects.</p><p>But if Castiel didn't want him, he wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be in Dean’s bed, undressed and terrified.</p><p>“They hurt you,” Dean says, not a question. In the dark, Castiel nods. “Why?”</p><p>Dean tempts fate and rests a hand over Castiel’s hip—the only spot left untouched. Castiel winces and pulls away on instinct, but settles after; he burns hot, feverish, and shivers. “I disobeyed,” he mutters and turns his head into a pillow. He doesn’t bother to elaborate, and Dean doesn’t try to push. Questions float around in his mind, but right now, Castiel doesn’t need an interrogation, nor does he need humans prying into the dealings of angels.</p><p>What he needs is comfort, to be told that he’ll be alright when the sun rises.</p><p>“Here,” Dean whispers and scoots closer, taking his towel with him.</p><p>Under the sheets, Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist and tucks the other beneath their shared pillow, drawing Castiel’s back up against his chest. He dovetails their legs together and lets Castiel decide whether or not he wants to stay after this. Barely two years together, and the only contact Castiel has given him is lingering touches to his shoulder, or to his arms or face whenever something maims him. Never this close—never skin to skin, and never with someone else in the room.</p><p>Minutely, Castiel shivers in his arms. His hand fidgets for a moment before grabbing hold of Dean’s, lacing their fingers together. He clings to Dean like he may as well be a buoy, his only salvation amid the storm. “You’re hurt too,” Castiel rumbles after a while, thumbing the side of Dean’s hand. “What happened?”</p><p>Dean sighs a hot breath into Castiel’s nape. “Ghoul. I’ll be fine, nothing new.”</p><p>Another shiver; a twinge of a chill slides from Dean’s fingers up his arm, centering at the top notch of Dean’s spine. “Cas,” Dean says, fighting back the sudden emotion in his eyes. He doesn’t deserve to be healed, not while Castiel has it worse. <em>So much worse</em>. “You don’t have to—”</p><p>“Repayment,” Castiel says with such finality that Dean closes his mouth. “For holding me.”</p><p>Ashamed, Dean nods. “Don’t go,” he says and holds Castiel closer. He shudders as Castiel’s Grace undoes each and every bruise; the sudden absence of pain leaves him exhausted and speechless, tongue trying to form words he can barely utter. “Don’t leave.”</p><p>Castiel doesn’t answer before he nods off, clinging to Castiel’s hand with all intentions of keeping Castiel with him. Dreams don’t come for one blissful night, and in the morning, long after Sam leaves to grab breakfast from the motel lobby, Dean wakes to find half of the bed empty—and the television on, with Castiel sitting at the foot of the mattress, fully dressed, like last night never happened.</p><p>Maybe it was all a dream—but the look that Castiel throws over his shoulder, sheepishly apologetic, proves that to be a lie.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello all! I'm actually struggling extremely hard with writing my DCBB lately, and last night I had a dream and this was the result. Have fun with a short little blurb because I love them so much! Now, if only I can like... write what I'm supposed to before the deadline. </p><p>I'm on <a href="http://tragidean.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> and <a href="http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity">twitter</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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